She turned.
"I have seen you," she said. Durand was about to stammer some apology. She shook her head. "I have seen your face. Long ago. Or dreamt it."
Wary, confused, she peered at him until a shiver took her.
Durand took a moment to shut his mouth. "You'll catch your death," he managed. "I haven't even got a cloak. I'd best see you're safe, anyway. I'll just get my things. I'm up through the trees that way. Then we can be off. Stay a moment, and I'll see you safe wherever you're off to. Do not worry." Strangely, Durand felt he'd stumbled on some kind of purpose.
She was still watching him, her face indecipherable in the gloom.
"Right here," Durand said. He blundered up the bank and scrabbled after the bundle of armor, hardly thinking. This was something to put in the scales against Ferangore. In a moment, he slid back down the riverbank, carrying everything he owned.
She was gone.
He searched for
a dark hour, then forded the stream, half-wishing he could believe it was the mighty Banderol. He wished now that he had asked the strange woman where in Creation he was. He might be anywhere, though she had spoken the tongue of Atthi with no strange accent, and he supposed that must be something. On the far bank, a track shot off through the forest, running left and right. Deep ruts tore down into the earth. It was no animal trail. Still, as far as the young Blood Moon overhead would let Durand see, he found no trace of the woman from the stream.
"Host of Heaven, where is the Banderol? Where have I fetched up? I have been a fool. Worse than a fool. Lord of Dooms, where have you sent me?" He half-wondered if this was Heaven's curse upon him.
He took the left-hand path, staggering between the ruts. He tasted pooled water, trees, and earth on the air—a breeze added cool lakeshore. Then, as a high bank began to rise on his right hand, a fouler smell: wet horses, dung, and latrine trenches boiling over. Here was the smell of civilization.
Looking for an uphill track, he struggled through what felt like half a league of sliding muck. As he walked, he could see trees against the vault of Heaven ten fathoms up the bank. It could have been the hillfort at Ferangore, freed of its stone shell. Finally, fatigue and desperation convinced him the track would never turn for the hilltop.
With a deep breath, he crashed up the slope, hauling at the hillside brush like a bear. Firelight dawned at the crest. There was indeed a camp on the hill. Trees and tents ringed the flat top of the promontory, while, in and out of the firelight, shield-bearers and serving men trudged. Every kind of horse stood in the dark, puffing steam. Shadows played over the walls of bright tents.
Just as he began to wonder what he had stumbled into, a snarling shape of iron and wool exploded from the brush. Durand crashed flat into the branches, with someone's fists hammering his ribs as he rolled.
"Sneaking bastard!" his attacker roared, stamping a breath of garlic and beer round Durand's ear.
Durand rammed his elbow into the weight bearing him down, feeling teeth clack. "Hells!" More garlic. This, he would not endure. For an instant, Durand managed to plant his foot. He drove himself upright, balancing the struggling weight of his attacker on his shoulders. He tried to get hold of hair or hood, but his nails scrabbled over iron rings.
"Host of Hells!" the attacker swore. "Not so easy, you sneaking bullock." The man's fingers caught the hair at the nape of Durand's neck and pitched him suddenly forward, his chin biting the ground like a plowshare under all the weight He couldn't free his arms.
Now a stubbled muzzle brushed his ear, huffing,
"Right, you murdering pig, now I'll slit your throat with your own knife!"
There was a hand groping at his hip. The blade came free. Durand couldn't move.
"Sir Badan!"
It was a new voice, and it came from a few paces off. Durand's jaw was creaking at the hinges. "Badan!" a second voice shouted.
"I've caught someone behind the tents, haven't I?" said Durand's attacker. "Likely some whoreson's sent him to spy out our lordship's little secret, eh?"
"And will you slay him for it? Think on what you do. This is a tournament."
"He's a spy!"
"And the heralds? What would they do, if you killed a man beyond the lists? If you broke the King's Peace, what do you imagine they would do with the rest of us? His Lordship would not be pleased if you had us banned. Not now."
"Mind your business, Agryn," said the voice at Durand's ear, "or maybe I'll open your gullet, too."
"Others have tried."
There was a snarl.
"Badan!" said a third speaker. "I can't have a man of mine threatening another member of His Lordship's retinue." The weight on Durand's shoulders rolled off. "Oh! Coensar." "Aye...."
Durand took his chance to peer backward. He saw three men and three bare blades.
"I haven't broken the Peace," said Badan. "The whoreson lives. I caught him nosing around back of our tents. Don't know him, but he's no peddler, that's plain enough. He is too well grown for a peasant. Broad shoulders. Got me in the teeth."
The one called Agryn spoke. "He wears a sword belt and his surcoat is slit for riding."
"He's someone's pet soldier," Durand's attacker, Badan, finished.
Durand kept still. He had heard of a Coensar. "Get up," Coensar said. "Slowly."
Durand stood. A tall man stood a few paces from him, the Blood Moon gleaming down the long blade in his hand, and from the weapon issued a faint moaning. In this light, his hair, blade, and eyes were the same steely shade. It could be the Coensar Durand had heard about: a tournament captain. He had taken scores of men.
Durand made sure the men could see his hands. While he had nearly shaken this Badan character, he didn't like his chances against three, especially if one were Coensar.
Of the three, Sir Coensar stood furthest away. Next, a long-faced man with bowl-cut hair watched like some carved knight in a sanctuary. Both of these men were still. The nearest, however, sneered like a wolf, holding his jaw. This would be Badan, and he was bald to a fringe of red hair that ran long over his shoulders. As Durand watched him, he worked the jaw in what looked like a very painful yawn. It served him right.
Coensar fixed Durand with a challenging stare. "Who are you?"
"I'm called Durand. Durand of Col."
Badan interrupted. "Wha'? From down in Gireth?"
"And who sent you?" Coensar said.
"No one. What is this place?"
Now Badan laughed. "You have just happened to stumble across us, of all people? Coen, let me give him his dagger back." He waggled the blade, its point glinting.
Coensar's clear eyes never left Durand. "I'm not inclined to believe you."
"King of Heaven," said Durand. What could he possibly say? If there was a clever answer, he did not have it.
"Milord, I'm past tired. All I meant to do was find the bloody round of tournaments. Where am I?"
"The tournaments ..." Coensar said.
"Aye," Durand said. "I never meant for anything...." For a moment, Durand covered his face with both hands. He mastered himself.
When he looked up, Coensar was still watching.
"You're looking for the tournament," Coensar said.
"I was."
The long-faced knight—he had been called Agryn—was shaking his head, back and forth. Something was happening. Coensar eyed the man.
"Where am I?"
Durand asked.
"Red Winding," said Coensar soberly. 'The tournament at Red Winding."
"But..." Seven day's march in seven hours. Creation seemed to pitch like a ship's deck, but Durand forced himself to stand. "And you're fighting?" he asked.
"We are." The clear eyes looked deep.
Here was a chance; here was Durand's heart's desire. The Powers had dropped a prize into his hands. He must not let it fall. "I can fight," Durand declared.
Badan barked, but Durand tried to match the captain's stare. "I'm no thief. I'm Durand Col. Hroc's son. Ask anyone who's been to Acconel; they'd know me." This was his chance do things right, they must believe him.
The one called Agryn started the headshake once more. Each man checked the others' faces.
Durand heard movement from the tents. Someone was coming. Through the tent ropes, a man wove toward them, a lantern swinging in his hand. He was only a few yards away when he raised the light to reveal a face:, ink-dark eyes and sable hair, the living image of Lady Alwen.
Durand couldn't close his mouth.
"Heavens," the man said. It looked like he hadn't meant to greet company.
Coensar smiled. " 'Acconel,' you said?"
Hands closed on Durand's elbows, and Durand turned his eyes to Heaven.
9. Trial above th
e Mere
T
hey dragged Durand into a tent where they stood him like a moth in a canvas lantern. Heavy chests lined the walls and a swirling carpet from the Inner Seas had been rolled over the grass. There were knights all around: big men with arms folded, some just returning blades to scabbards. All eyes were on Durand, including the dark eyes of the black-haired young man with the lantern: his judge.
Dressed all in red, this man who so looked like Alwen of Gireth settled into a camp chair and gave Sir Coensar a bantering look. Bits of brass winked at scabbard and buckle. "Well, who have you brought me, my captain? Introductions seem in order, at the very least."
Who was this man?
Coensar said nothing.
"Well, then," the young man pressed, "Sir Agryn, perhaps you will tell me?"
Agryn blinked once and bowed a fraction. "Lordship, this man claims he's known in Acconel."
The young lord leaned closer. "Hmm. He's a big lad. Dark mop. Eyes look blue ..."
Now Badan grunted. "
I think a man'd remember him, If
he's ever been to Acconel." But then the young lord—still the preternatural image of Alwen—was looking into Durand's face, considering. A homely footman stepped close to slop claret into his cup.
"Says he's come ninety leagues round Silvermere to join the tournament," Badan added. "Says he comes from the Col."
The young lord raised his empty hand, saying idly, "I suppose if you've no boat, you must go round."
They were playing with him. Durand eyed the circle of fighting-men carefully, thinking he should catch what he had missed—baffled. Most looked far more displeased than their lord, who now regarded Durand with a narrowed eye. And threw up his hands.
"All right, then, I concede. Tell me who you are, and perhaps that will tell me what I must do."
"I'm called Durand, Lordship: son of Hroc, Baron of Col."
Now the impossible young lord sat back, hooking his thumbs under his glinting belt. "Whom do you say you served?"
"I served Sir Kieren, Lordship. Kieren of Arbourhall."
The man let a long moment slide past.
"I would have thought he was past playing knights and shield-bearers by now. The Fox must be older than Coen here, and God knows how long
he's
been at it."
Coensar closed his eyes. Something had gone wrong for these men.
"Well, I know nothing else about him," the young noble said. "But he's fully as daft as he says he is, and I would guess that he's served in Acconel."
There was something in the man's voice—this uncanny resemblance, this knowledge of Acconel. Alwen was not an only child. The Duke of Gireth had two daughters and two sons. His heir and his youngest daughter had always been in Acconel. But the youngest son
...
He never came home. Only that summer, half the court had packed themselves off to
Mornaway
for his wedding and come back silent. He was never anywhere to be seen. Durand tried to remember that name.
"—Lamoric"
Durand said, and men all around cursed.
"That's it then," said the young lord.
But Durand could hardly hear them all. Before him sat the youngest son of the Duke of Gireth, brother of the woman he had thrown in that Ferangore tower, uncle of the infant child lost beyond hope. Durand felt the Powers circling him, mocking, watching, weighing.
Lamoric twisted in his chair. "You wouldn't think this should be so difficult," Lamoric said.